Coffee heat rising

Trash Scavengers: What Could Go Wrong?

Trigger warning: This post contains an amazingly gross scheme that is not for the tender of tummy. 😉

As I’ve remarked, because my neighborhood has a problem with identity thieves and transients sifting through the trash, normally I would not throw out anything that has a bank account number on it, or a credit card number, a Social Security number…that kind of thing. But even without those items of information, someone who is raiding your trash for data to sell to identity thieves can still unearth stuff that can do you a lot of damage. In the identity-theft department, plain old junk mail can present some serious threats.

For example:

  • Any solicitation or notice that comes in from AARP signals that you’re a senior citizen and therefore a particularly vulnerable species of pigeon.
  • Notices from Medicare, your Medigap insurance, and Social Security: same issue.
  • Pre-approved credit card solicitations: All the thief has to do is change the address, and voilà! He’s got a new card in your name.
  • Periodicals. These tell an aspiring thief what your interests are and hint at how affluent you are. All those weekly Economist magazines, for example…maybe you’d just as soon not have your name and address on their labels. A copy of American Hunter tells an alert burglar you’re a member of the NRA, which means you have at least one firearm in the house…and how convenient: there’s your address!
  • Catalogs. They reveal just how expensive (or cheap) your taste is and where you shop. They also contain a bar code that can reveal vulnerable information about you.
  • Anything you throw out unopened because it’s stamped “Standard Mail” instead of “First Class Mail.” Cox (among others) inundates me with “special offers,” always delivered by junk mail. Trash digger finds one of those, bingo! He knows the house is served by Cox, not by CenturyLink.
  • Renewal notices. Costco just sent a notice for renewal. And yes, it does have my account number on it.
  • Business announcements. Fidelity sends libraries-full of prospecti for the many companies my money managers invest in. I don’t read them, because I don’t have that much time left in my life. Neither do I shred them — these things are fat, saddle-stitched booklets: just one of them would jam the shredder. A guy who understands what he’s looking at can parse out where my savings are invested.
  • Insurance company solicitations. Bar code: personal information.
  • Reminders to re-up your membership in a political party. Your political leaning is none of some thief’s business.
  • Requests for donations. Ditto your charitable inclinations.
  • Paychecks, checks for reimbursement or for freelance gigs, wage & earnings statements, tax returns and statements, bank statements, credit-card statements, medical bills, insurance bills, insurance claims and information, and random ID documents. These are usually sent by first-class mail and so are easy to differentiate from junk mail. Still: because they’re juicy pickings for identity thieves, they should never land in an unlocked mailbox. In fact, they probably should never come to your mailbox at all, locked or not. Payments to you should be made electronically — either direct-deposited to your bank account or sent through PayPal. As for those other obvious targets: get yourself a hefty steel locking mailbox. Intercept these documents at the mailbox, file them as need be, and shred them before discarding.

To shred all of the piles of junkmail the postperson delivers six days a week would soon add up to hours of wasted time. I do not want to spend any of my time tearing open envelopes and feeding their contents, a page or two at a time, through my shredder. Burning them in the fireplace is illegal, and it leaves a big mess to clean up.

Registering with the Opt-Out list to waylay prescreened credit card offers is about as futile as signing up for the National Do Not Call list. Both of these sops for angry citizens are simply ignored by mail and telephone solicitors. Signing up for do-not-send lists just wastes still more of your time.

So…is there an easier way to deal with the stacks of junk mail?

Sure, if you have a pet dog or cat.

Here’s the strategy:

Get yourself a tall kitchen trash can that has a step-on lid. This, you will use only for junk mail…and for one other kind of debris. Line the trash can with a sturdy plastic drawstring garbage bag.

Every time you visit the mailbox, drop the junk mail directly into the lined trash can, unopened.

Every time you clean the kitty turds out of the cat box, toss them in on top of the day’s layer of junk mail. Every time you pick up the dog mounds out of the yard, toss them in on top of the junk mail. When you change the cat box, pour the used cat litter over the accrued cargo of junk mail.

Keep this stash outside in the yard, since it’s likely to get a bit odoriferous before it’s time to haul the garbage out.

When the time does come, though, pour a cup or two of plain tap water over the combined mail and animal excreta. Tie the bag shut with the drawstring right before you toss it out. Over the course of a few hours in the city’s garbage bin, this will convert a yucky mess into a truly revolting mess.

And that will be your gift to your data-hunting garbage scavenger. He won’t have to break into more than one of those bags of layer cake to decide to pass on your trash.

Of Bums and Dogs and Homes

CharleyCharley the Golden Retriever is here visiting, whilst his human travels to Colorado to visit Granma (104 years old and still kickin’ vigorously, believe it or not!) and then spends a few days at his favorite fishing hole.

Charley is utterly, totally, completely harmless. He is not a German shepherd or a Doberman pinscher or a Belgian malinois, no. No, indeed. He will not remove your foot, no matter what nefarious shenanigans you get up to. Holy mackerel, you could even be a President of the United States elected with the collusion of an enemy foreign power, and he still would not remove your foot. He would, instead, love you into submission.

But he’s big. Very, very big. And something there is about a very big dog that is satisfying.

For, after all…

The human does not live among the harmless. Sooner or later (probably sooner) the human is going to have to decide whether to continue to den among the feckless and the criminal, or to move itself and its tribe far far away, to another galaxy in another time.

Yesterday I’m sitting here snarfing down breakfast when I hear thunk twang whack coming from our lovely alley. These interesting noises have become so commonplace that Ruby the Corgi Pup, who fancies herself a watchdog, no longer even bothers to bark at them.

This goes on long enough that I wonder what the f*ck, haul myself to my agèd feet, climb up on a landscaping rock, and peer over the wall.

Yep. There’s a bum out there.

He’s big, he’s white, he’s red-headed, he’s filthy, and he’s pulled all the trash out of the big communal garbage bin. He’s going through every, single, tiny bit of it, piece by piece, apparently deciding what to keep and what to throw back.

A bum fishing expedition, as it were.

He has a big plastic bag on the ground next to him.

It looks a whole lot like the garbage bag containing two weeks’ worth of junk mail and garbage recently discarded from my house.

I think…oh shit! What’s in that thing?

Nothing that contains an account number or a Social Security number: all of that trash gets filed in the Bottomless Trash Collector that is my office. BUT…

Yes. BUT every piece of effing junkmail has my name and address on it. No, I do not shred every piece of incoming effing junkmail. To do so would take half my lifetime. And even though I have a heavy-duty shredder that will consume a defunct credit card, the bastard junk-mailers try to force you to open their envelopes by stuffing them with so much paper they’ll jam the heaviest-duty shredder you can buy. I do not have enough hours left in my life to open every piece of trash that’s sent to me and run it, page by page, through the shredder. So…if it’s not stamped First Class Mail, it goes directly into the trash, without passing go and without being opened.

Claro que this is not the brightest idea…

After another stretch of time, it dawns on the agèd mind that the recycling and the garbage were picked up on Thursday. Our bum guest has come visiting on a Friday…a day late and presumably quite a few dollars short.

The relief is short-lived, of course. because the message remains painfully obvious: never throw out anything that has anything personally identifiable on it!

Between that and the day-before-yesterday’s reminder that we do not live in the safest of all possible neighborhoods, once again I find myself wondering: is it time to pull up stakes?

And if so, Where would I go?

I do not want to move. I love my home. I love my yard. I love my neighbors. I even love my (somewhat questionable) neighborhood. I love living close to my church. I love living close to my son. I love being more or less in the center of what passes for the city’s cultural life (snark!). I love living close to a mountain park. I love having an excuse to carry a pistol or a can of Bear Spray with me when I go out…oops. Oh. Not so much that latter. Oh well.

So. What to do about the immediate problem: thieves sifting through the garbage looking for anything they can use or sell, including identifying documents?

Well, the trash goes out about once every two weeks. One thing I could do is collect a week’s worth of dog mounds (that is quite a lot…corgis are actually big dogs on short legs) and, before tying off the trash bag. dump the whole accretion in on top. That would probably discourage most guys from pawing through the bag’s contents.

The gent I saw yesterday? Maybe. Maybe not. Depends on how desperate he is to stay current with his fixes, I imagine.

Then we have the larger problem: Despite all the good-hearted jawing, these derelicts are NOT harmless.

Most recent obvious case in point: the young father who was sitting in Southern California restaurant when some homeless mentally ill nut case walked up to him and stabbed him in the throat.

This is not as uncommon as you might think. When a person’s voices tell him to do something, it’s just not that easy to say “no.”

One of the immediate causes that led my ex- and I to sell our very lovely home in the historic Encanto District — this happened after the ax murderer chopped our 80-year-old neighbor to pieces, donned her tennis shoes, and drove away in her car — occurred when a local bum noticed a woman who regularly appeared early at her employers’ dirty-shirt law office to fix the coffee and use a few quiet moments to catch up on her tasks. His voices clued him to the fact that she was actually Satan, and advised that he should kill her. Understandably, that’s exactly what he did: stabbed her to death.

Encanto in the 1970s was enjoying the same influx of “homeless” bums and drug addicts as North Central is today…occasioned by the same influence: Our Honored City Parents, who do not give a damn what happens to your neighborhood as long as it enriches their already wealthy patrons. Then we had downtown redevelopment. Now we have the light-rail — locally known as the Bum Express.

I do not feel safe visiting the grocery stores in the neighborhood, which are overrun with lightrail-riding transients. To do routine shopping,  I drive out of the area, sometimes way out of the area. Nor do I feel very safe carrying the trash out to the alley garbage bins.

Driving my trash to some other neighborhood is not very practical, so I have to be careful to check the area before unlocking the gate, and never go out there after dark.

The German shepherds used to provide some protection in the trash-dumping department. But these little corgis? Not so much.

Should I buy another shepherd dog?

Not a chance. The fact still remains that I no longer am physically vigorous enough to handle a large, powerful, high-drive dog. Nor can I afford the concomitant vet bills. A big dog costs big money. And without a salary, I just don’t have it.

I could get one of those outdoor fire pits and use it to reduce the junk mail to ash. This of course is illegal in Phoenix. But if you did it after dark, when the City’s air watchdogs are home burning trash in their own fireplaces, no one would catch you. Especially not if you dumped the ashes as soon as they were cool enough to dispose of.

The fact is, it’s not very safe to go into the alley. And the fact is, the only place to dispose of your trash is…yes. In the alley.

As a practical matter, it’s beginning to add up to one conclusion: Pretty soon I’m going to have to move someplace that isn’t being actively trashed by our City Parents and their deep-pocketed backers.

And I don’t want to.

To know or not to know…

…Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them.

Or, in the present case: by opposing, end yourself…

Exeunt, pursued…

To live in a big city is to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous…behavior. Just yesterday the cops pursued some nut case who led them across-town, driving on the light-rail tracks at some points, and finally ended up barging into some hard-working couple’s home, whereupon the cops destroyed the place and the perp killed the cops’ Belgian malinois.

So: yeah. That’s this evening’s wallpaper.

Day is over and the dogs — the corgis, that is, not the fierce police dog — wish to go for a stroll around the neighbors’ lawns. I’m just strapping on a pair of sandals for the purpose when

ROAAAARRRRRRRRR!

Cop Copter! They tear over the house and skid to a stop (as best as a pilot can skid through the sky) over the end of the block, just this side of Conduit of Blight Blvd.

For crap’s sake.

Searchlight glaring, they circle around for fifteen or twenty frantic minutes.

So instead of setting out for Richistan, Bear Spray in hand, the hounds and I hunker down behind locked doors and windows.

{sigh} I am getting very tired of these events. Very tired of having to live behind dead-bolted, barred doors. Very tired of having to dodge bums, panhandlers, burglars, hopped-up drug addicts, thieves, crazed drivers, and wacksh!t nut cases almost every goddamn day of my life. And my dogs’ lives.

Maybe it’s time to move to Prescott. Yarnell. A hundred acres in the middle of nowhere. Enough, already!

See, the thing is: places like Yarnell can’t afford to equip their police departments with helicopters. Hence…quiet.

And hence, the question of the evening: Is it better to know or not to know about the mayhem that’s going on around you?

True enough…I should be thankful to have been warned away from whatever shenanigans were coming down, six or eight houses up the street.

On the other hand, given some silence the dogs and I would have headed in the other direction from the scene of the shenanigans. Chances that we would have encountered the burglar/car break-in artist/murderer/rapist/sticky-fingered derelict were nigh unto nil. And even if we had, I would’ve had the Bear Spray on my belt and a shilelagh in my hand.

(On the other hand, one could ask why the eff anyone would want to go for a doggy-walk if you have to haul a can of high-test pepper spray and carry an ironwood staff with you…)

Seriously: would you not be better off if you didn’t know about these things? If your life were not interrupted every couple of days by buzzing helicopters and whirring sirens? Could the cops not swarm the alley and the yard and the house where the perp is reported to be active, on foot? Without all the random noise, would your nerves not be a great deal less jangled? Would your life not be more peaceful? Would you not get a decent 30 minutes of exercise, instead of parking in front of the computer for that half-hour (and more)?

Portugal. For €150,000, one could buy a three-bedroom manor in the Estremadura. Why are we here at all?

Will Portugal take my dogs?

 

Wherever You’re Goin’…

…You can’t get there from here!

That old chestnut simply has to have been written by someone from Phoenix. About Phoenix. What a f*ckin’ zoo this place is!

Having failed to get to yesterday’s West Valley Writer’s Workshop shindig, today I determined to go to a weekly Central Phoenix Writing Workshop, therein — with any luck — to meet some new people and maybe even make some new friends. A guy who shows up at the WVWW events is one of the Central Phoenix organizers, and I thought it would be nice to see him, he being a pretty interesting fella.

But no.

It should be a straight shot down Central Avenue. This outfit meets in a hipster coffee house dead center in the renovated downtown.

Li’l hipsters…

To give you an idea: During the recession, I considered (in passing) buying a condo within walking distance of this place. They wanted as much as my four-bedroom house costs for 1 tiny living/dining room, 2 “bedrooms” (one would suffice as a small office), and a kitchenette.

Yeah.

But that’s not so much here nor there.

Turn out of a neighboring ‘Hood and head south on Central.

It is slow going.

And then it gets slower.

And then it comes to a dead stop.

WTF? I can’t figure out what the problem is. Must be an accident up ahead.

At Indian School Road, traffic just sits at the light. After awhile, we inch close enough to the intersection that I can see Indian School is closed east of Central. Cop lights are flashing: must be a Wreck from Hell…not an uncommon event in these parts, as you can imagine.

By now it’s quarter to two. The group’s meeting starts at 2:00 p.m. I’m not gonna make it if I stay in this mess. If I veer right and then dart south on Seventh, maybe I can get around the mess. Fortunately, I’m already in the right-hand lane. I nuzzle the car into the right-turn lane, cutting off some poor wretch who has the same idea.

We sit through FOUR SIGNALS before I get to the front of the line to turn right on Indian School.

Westbound traffic is OK.

Turn south on Third, knowing that at Thomas (this being my old stomping grounds) I’ll have to jog west and then south onto Fifth, since those two streets convert to one-way at that point. PITA.

It gets later.

By the time the supercharged Venza reaches Thomas, we’re just a few brief minutes short of two o’clock

At this point, I figure I’ve had about enough of this run-around.

For.

Get.

THAT!

North on Seventh Ave, headed back to Bum Central, way far to the north of these gentrified confines.

…Meet yo’ daddies and yo’ mamas!

Cruising north, back at Indian School I come to this organic market that I’ve always wanted to visit but usually can’t because when I’m northbound on 7th Ave I’m in a ball-busting hurry (yes, I do always run late…why do you ask?) or it’s late at night after some downtown event or I’m evading the Hated I-17 or I have someplace to go on Seventh. None of those eventualities invite one to diddle around in a grocery store.

Dart right out of the middle lane, tromp the brakes, annoy the guy who was flying along in that lane about 10 mph over the limit. (I know, because we were pacing each other.) Whip into the store’s parking lot.

What a freaking blast from the past!

If you are old enough to remember the 1960s and 70s, then you are old enough to remember organic food co-ops.

This place is like an organic food co-op, only clean. Only with pretty damn good-looking produce. What it really makes you think of is a Whole Foods crammed into the space the size of a typical Sprouts.

Remember the allegedly “organic” produce in those 1970s co-ops? Wilted. Brown. Soggy. Looked like it had been picked from somebody’s backyard garden and left to ferment in a warehouse for three weeks? Yeah: you had to be a true believer to buy that pre-garbage.

The produce in this store was FREAKING GORGEOUS! Plump and handsome and happy and calling out to your taste buds: Come to me, come to meeeee!

The clientele? Omigod. You never saw so many aging hippies in your life. And of course health-conscious gay guys. The store is on the edge of the Melrose district, the home of many gay couples. Everyone in the store was visibly having a wonderful time shopping. No irony there: it was clear these people loved it.

And they had hippy-dippy personal products, so many organic combs and brushes and creams and soaps and toothpastes and beard softeners and hair pomades and…the boggle minded.

Naturally I bought a piece of (YES!) unscented Castile soap (couldn’t believe it) and a little pottle of unscented workingman’s hand softener gunk (think udder cream gone to San Francisco). Hallelujah brothers and sisters!

If they’d had some tie-died clothes, you can be sure I’d’ve bought some of that, too.

Raced back home bearing a beautiful, ripe (!!!!) acorn squash, a perfect unblemished yellow onion, and a pound of allegedly organic, allegedly hormone-free, allegedly grass-fed ground meat from the loins of the perfect cow.

Nice. Will I go back? Probably. It was overpriced. Yes: prices outstripped Whole Paycheck even before that honorable store was kidnapped by Amazon. But did it have things I don’t think I can find elsewhere? Yeah. Definitely. I will go back.

So.

Even though you can’t get wherever it is you think you’re going from here, you can get somewhere interesting. 😀

 

Sumer is y-cumen…again!

First week of April in Arizona? Summertime!

People who came here from other parts of the country think it’s already awrful hot. It’s not: yesterday the high only reached 91.

To my mind that’s fairly balmy. But I guess if you grew up in more temperate climes, it feels extreme. Oh well. Just wait till they see what it’s like on July 4. 😀

The plants are beside themselves, once again, with plant joy. The citrus has been blossoming for several weeks — tiny baby oranges, limes, and lemons have started to appear.

Just a few days ago, I planted some new chard seeds in a) a pot and b) a perennially sunbaked flowerbed. Speaking of perennial, the existing chard plants have occupied their pot for upwards of three years. Unlike other kinds of leafy vegetables, the stuff doesn’t bolt to seed in the summer (when it does sprout a seed wand, that doesn’t kill the plant), and it can live through a fairly bracing frost.

This winter some kind of tiny bug literally shaved its leaves off to their center spines. I thought the plants were done for. But lo! This spring, they sprouted new leaves.

The bugs went after them again, so I squirted a solution of Dawn all over the plants. Apparently said solution was a little too strong, though: it burned the chard’s leaves. Again, I thought it was done for, so went out and bought a package of chard seeds, figuring to have to start anew..

Nay, verily: the things have put out more new leaves. Meanwhile, the seeds — which I planted about three days ago — are already sprouting.

Would’ve thunk it?

Planted some little chrysanthemum-like things in the pot, having heard that they repel bugs. Right. We shall see about that.

In any event, they’re kind of pretty little plants, and I think they survive in the heat here.

The Mexican primrose — in reality a kind of weed, a plant that Gerardo looks at aghast — is in full, ecstatic bloom. They make a beautiful pink flower on an upright plant. And because they are quite weedish, they spread like crazy and you cannot kill them.

Lookit these orange things that sprouted from an ancient bulb. Don’t remember what they were called — if I ever knew. But aren’t they pretty?

The lantana, which began to struggle last fall and appeared to be about to wither and die, made it through the winter (to my surprise). It probably needs to be transplanted into a larger pot — lantana is a vigorous spreading critter, and I imagine it must have some space demands. Some varieties of the stuff will actually grow into a hedge in these parts.

Welp, I’d better get off my duff pretty quick. I signed up to go to a writer’s workshop here in town this afternoon. They meet on Sunday afternoons, which normally would be highly inconvenient for me (if not altogether unworkable), because most Sundays choir doesn’t unwind until after noon. Getting downtown through the wacksh!t traffic and fighting to find a parking place by 2 p.m.: not so good. But today we get a little “spring break” after the hectic doings of Holy Week: no church.

Because they meet in a fancy coffee house, you pretty much have to buy something — and we’re told a cup of plain iced coffee (hold the cream, hold the sugar, hold the fake flavoring) will put you back four bucks. Going there once a week is, shall we say, aversive to the frugalist. So…they’ll have to be pretty damn good for me to want to do this often.

The Bum Express goes right in front of the place, which would be grand if I had a friend up here who wanted to attend their meetings. But you couldn’t get me to stand around waiting for a train at the corner of Conduit of Blight and Gangbanger’s Way alone. Not on a bet. I wouldn’t like it even with another person along. But there’s no way I’d ride that thing by myself: not through our garden corner of the city.

This plan to find a writer’s group in town was occasioned by yesterday’s fiasco. The bunch I happen to favor meets in Avondale — it really is great group, the people in it very nice and smart and interesting and fun to know. But Avondale is halfway to Yuma from here.

It is an hour’s drive, door-to-door, from my house to the Avondale Civic Center, where they meet.

Yesterday the drive was enhanced by my realization, just as I turned out of the ‘Hood onto Gangbanger’s Way, that godDAMNit, I’d forgotten my credit cards & ID.

Soooo…had to turn back into the neighborhood, whereupon forthwith I got behind some poor soul who did not know where she was going and apparently had no GPS. She puttered along, blocking the road while peering back and forth and looking pretty puzzled. At one point she stopped at a tiny intersection and stood there, while she cogitated which way to turn.

All the while making me later and later and later….

Flew out of the ‘Hood, having discovered that Gangbanger’s Way is blocked up for pending goddamn lightrail construction, and headed across town on Main Drag South. This moved fairly smoothly, thank God, and I pulled up to the Avondale Library at exactly noon.

This, you understand, is actually “late,” because the guy who runs this group always starts precisely on the minute, and he expects everyone to be ready to go.

Fly to the door and find it…CLOSED.

The air conditioning has gone out and the flatland touristers who live in those far-flung HOA-ridden suburbs think 91 degrees is too hot to hold a library open.

God help us.

We’re told the meeting is moved to some branch library on the far, far southwest side.

I look at that and think…nope. Not going exploring out here. An hour of driving to get here is quite enough. Besides. I’m hungry.

So I headed home, disgusted because I did want to hear my friend’s presentation.

If you want to live in lovely Phoenix, you need to develop an appreciation for long, frustrating drives. 😀

Uhm…Progress made: Ella’s Story

Yup. That’s it. The extent of what little progress has been made today is the posting of yet another episode in the ongoing Ella’s story.

“Sure. Because we’re all fairies…”

You understand: I haven’t written any more of it, as I had planned to do today. Probably will not get any more of it written today, since I haven’t accomplished all of today’s Basic Survival Tasks. The computer, the crazies, and Fate have conspired there-against.

Today I do not seem to be able to do anything right. Or, according to my theory, the Damned Computer WILL not do anything right. What should have been a simple chore devolved into half an afternoon’s uphill climb.

I hate computers. I want my horse back.

Horses may not be as smart as computers, but they do have this redeeming quality:

Make my day, human!

Fuck up on a horse, and she’ll throw you on your head and after that you will never have to think about anything again.

Life? You think you should have a life, human?

Fuck up on a computer, and you’ll spend half your goddamn lifetime FIXING IT!

But no little annoyance related to either compares to the infinite annoyance of driving on the homicidal streets of the City of Phoenix.

I swear to GOD these people are fucking lunatics. We live in a city entirely populated by fucking lunatics.

Admit it: this is a more rational explanation than my theory that selected morons and lunatics have radar chips implanted in their brains to alert them every time I get in my car, so they can all swarm out onto the roads. Does it not make more sense that they are always on the roads, at all times of the day and night, than that they all make special trips out to chase me around every time I run an errand?

The high point of today’s WackSh!ttery was a fulminating case of road rage that forced me to dodge off a main drag into a…oh hell…just so fuckin ridiculous.

I’m cruising toward Costco, where I’ve GOTTA fill up the gas tank, like…right now. Westward bound on Glendale, a seven-lane main drag. Ahead of me are two sh!theads playing catch-me-if-you-can. The guy in front, a blue car, seems to be moving along. He’s being tailgated by a guy in a red car. Red Car suddenly darts into the two-way left-turn lane, FLOORS it, kicks up a cloud of road dust as he roars past the guy in the blue car, swerves back into the traffic lane, and JAMS on his brakes.

I jam on my brakes and miss rear-ending the guy in the blue car, who apparently is expecting this because he misses the red  car.

Red Car A**hat brings the traffic in the fast lane to a near stop. Expecting a fist-fight at best and an exchange of  bullets at worst, I figure to get away from them by jerking south (left turn) onto Seventh Ave. Signalling, I move into the left-turn lane.

Blue Car, apparently trying to get away from Red Car A**hat, swerves in front of me, cutting me off in the left lane. Red Car, watching this instead of the road ahead, darts in front of him and jams on his brakes again.

Seeing this coming, I floor it and FLY back into the fast lane, now cutting off the guy who was running behind me and apparently not paying a lot of attention to our little drama.

He misses rear-ending me, for which I am thankful.

I now have missed my turn to go south. So turn south on 15th.

Fifteenth Avenue is a minor main drag — a very major feeder street for an endless series of housing developments that spread westward from Central Avenue. In the past it moved smoothly enough except for a few stop signs and the occasional irrelevant traffic signal. But the idiot city has decided that it would enhance “safety” to fuck up the traffic flow on this lengthy road, which extends from Dunlap all the way down to the State Capitol, a very, very long way. To that end, they have installed a brain-banging series of speed humps and roundabouts.

Phoenix drivers, being the wooly-brained sheeple that they are, cannot figure out that you do NOT need to slow down for the inane, shallow speed humps. Maintain a steady speed of about 30 mph and you can cruise right over the damned infuriating things with no damage to you, your car, your bystanders. Naturally, I get behind one of Phoenix’s Dumbest. He putters along, then JAMS on his brakes every time he approaches one of these tiny speed humps, then speeds up again. And as for the roundabout? By that, he was so flummoxed, he actually had to stop and figure it out.

I have to ask you: How hard IS this????

G-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-H!!!!!!!!!!

Blue Car reappears at Maryland, apparently having dodged Red Car at Seventh and Maryland (or maybe shot the bastard, who knows?). He turns north and darts out of sight at a high rate of speed.

Sheeple finally leads us across Bethany Home, where Fifteenth widens enough for me to charge around him.

I will refrain from describing the stupid stuff at the Costco filling station, lest I bite one of the dogs in remembered rage.

Finally escaping from Costco, I head east on Bethany Home trying to get north (leftward bound) on Seventh.

But shit NO! As is the usual case on Phoenix’s fine road system, wherever you’re going, you can’t get there from here.

Ahead, I spot a traffic jam backed up at a no-left-turn sign. Luckily I’m already in the left lane, and so can swerve across the oncoming traffic and alight in a neighborhood.

Traversing a spaghetti-dish of winding roads, I make my way northerly and easterly, around to Seventh. The construction at Bethany is holding up the traffic so I have no problem jerking left out of the neighborhood across three traffic lanes. What could go wrong?

Nothing, for a change.

Finally make it home.

Any question why my blood pressure hovers near the stratosphere?

This is typical. You can not go out on the roads in this damn city without running into this kind of sh!t. Every time.

Today I had four simple errands:

  • Make a run on the Fry’s at Tatum & Shea, therein to search for (and of course not find) some items left wanting by my usual hangouts.
  • Stop on the way home at Home Depot, there to buy the spring vegetable seeds that, yea verily, were not available in the Fry’s nursery section.
  • Drop down to Seventh Street & Glendale to pick up a bucket of granulated chlorine for the pool.
  • Cruise across to 7th, jog south and west to Costco, fill up the gas tank.

Thence, go home, a straight shot (literally…) up 7th Avenue.

These are not difficult things to accomplish, eh? The roads, all of them three lanes in each direction (with a center left-turn-crazy lane, giving you seven lanes per thoroughfare), move smoothly under the influence of intelligently timed lights. None of these four stops requires a left turn into a parking lot. Should be easy, wouldn’t you think?

How hard can  this be?

Very. That’s how.

Because the antics described herein are fucking standard operating practice. This is simply the way people drive here. It is a screaming madhouse out there.

If my son didn’t live here in town, I would move out of this ugly, batsh!t crazy city so fast it would make your head spin.

Wanting to retire in Arizona? Make your home in Prescott. Whatever you do, do not do not do not move to Phoenix. Or to Tucson, which is even worse.